


The World Is Ending (Baby Let Me Burn Here With You)

by Aylarain



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Apocalypse, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Porn with just a smidge of plot, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:23:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylarain/pseuds/Aylarain
Summary: Alex flees the city to Richard's father's house as an army of death marches across the earth.It would take an apocalypse to get these two together.





	The World Is Ending (Baby Let Me Burn Here With You)

**Author's Note:**

> A fair warning: happy endings can be hard to find during the apocalypse.

It begins with bodies missing from the morgue. Days later empty caskets litter the floors of funeral homes. Two more months and the bones of things long dead scurry across the ground. 

The dead are not rejoining the living. The dead are eradicating the living and anything left with enough tissue and bone joins the army of rot and decay. In an uncharacteristic moment of despair, Alex begs him, “Promise me,” she pleads, “Promise me there will be nothing left.” 

Alex thought the apocalypse would be dark skies lit up by lightning, windowpanes rattled by thunder. Instead, the sun rises every morning over a cloudless, blue sky to shine down on streets painted red. _It’s fitting_ , Alex thinks, _darkness doesn’t have to hide anymore._

She fled her apartment building in the city a few days after communication went down. It was dark by the time she climbed his front porch steps and knocked on his door. It took a moment, maybe two, for Strand to throw it open and haul her in, circling his arms around her, holding her tight in a display of unexpected affection. He took the couch as she wrapped herself in his flannel and pulled Richard smelling sheets to her chin.

Alex is careful not to mention Charlie or Ruby, and Strand never asks after Nic or Amalia. That was life before. This is life during… _After?_

Strand buries himself in books digging his way through decades of denial. Alex pours over journals and boxes of papers searching for answers to a question she can't speak aloud. _Did we do this?_... the answer isn’t definitely no… _it’s most assuredly yes._ Every time she peers out the window, she expects to see rotting corpses marching across the lawn leaving scorched earth in their wake, ground consecrated by death. There's nothing but green grass and blue skies as far as the eye can see. The sanctuary of this house is left undisturbed. 

The third night after the second day Alex leaves his lonely bed while the moon is still high in the sky. Three nights surrounded by his scent. Three nights waking up with searching fingers that never find his skin. Leaving her panties on his bedroom floor she is aware of this line in the sand that’s never been crossed. The waves of this broken world have all but washed it away. Desire spreads like heat outward from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes. An aching need building up in the space an audience once filled between journalist and subject.

She finds him scratching lines across a yellow notepad. Books and broken pencils scattered across his desk. Line after line of symbols and letters. A language she doesn’t understand. _Does he?_

“Alex, I...” he starts, taking in her barely clothed form. His half-buttoned flannel shirt stopping just above her knees. 

“Richard,” she hushes him, plucking the pencil out of his hand, raising one leg to slide across his lap. He can feel the heat of her settling over his thighs.“Richard,” she whispers as she curls a hand around his nape and brings his mouth to meet hers. Kissing Alex is like being found and Richard didn't even know he was lost. 

His hands move hesitantly to the buttons of her shirt, _his shirt._

“Please,” she says softly, eyes closed, grinding down against the roughness of his jeans. He aches at the want in her voice. Baring her body to his unworthy eyes he blinks away the image of inky symbols branded into her flesh. The low lamplight playing tricks on his eyes, hours of research pouring out onto her skin. 

“I've got you,” he murmurs, leaning down to suck a bruise just above her breast, leaving her marked. _Mine._ His hands move down her body with little grace and a sure purpose. One finger slips between her folds, finding her wet, _wanting_ , he buries two in her tight, warm cunt. 

Her fingers work his zipper down, getting her hands on him. He groans as his head falls back, eyes screwed tightly shut. It's been so long since he's felt a touch not his own. So long, and this is Alex wrapping her small hand around him with curious strokes. All of his words in every language he knows and it's just _Alex, Alex, Alex_ on repeat over and over as the smooth skin of her palm caresses up and down, up and down. 

_Alex, Alex, Alex_ , until his hands grasp her hips lifting her up just enough and Alex is ready, _so very ready_ , positioning him at her entrance until finally, _finally_ , she sinks down. 

Carding her fingers through his short hair, she leans in just enough to whisper in his ear, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” a never ending mantra that sinks into his bones settling over his heart. The world is maybe, _probably_ , ending, Alex is rocking against him, and maybe she was there all along. 

He doesn’t sleep on the couch anymore and Alex hasn’t looked for another bed. At night Strand curls his body around her smaller frame. Moving images of a life he won’t live streaming against the back of his eyelids.

Alex wakes at dawn with searching fingers coming up empty. She finds him in the kitchen gazing out the window over the sink. A cup of forgotten tea cooling on the counter. _Beautiful_ , she muses, as she leans against the doorframe taking in the sight of him. He's wearing only a loose pair of drawstring pants riding low on his hips leaving her an unobstructed view of his strong upper body. _So very handsome_. 

“Watching the sun rise?” It's an obvious observation she expects him to brush off as she moves closer. She wants to lay her hands at his waist. Drag her nails under the waistband of his pants. A touch hunger that’s never satisfied since she was given her first taste.

“I keep expecting it not to,” he replies, low and quiet, stopping her advance. It's the most defeatist thing she's heard him say. It cracks her heart just a little here in the muted grey early morning light. It's only six hours since the last time she had him. It’s only six days since the first. An entire lifetime before that without him. If the sun doesn't rise tomorrow… _can she keep him?_

She's always been pragmatic when it comes to her romantic entanglements. The world is maybe, _probably_ , ending and she's diving in head first with no regard to the depth of the water rushing up to meet her. 

Falling to her knees at his feet, she pulls him out of his pants, stroking him to hardness with her hands. Alex brings life back into him with her mouth, throat relaxing, eyes watering as she takes him down as far as she can. An errant, “Fuck,” hisses past his lips and Alex hums in agreement. His hands tighten around fistfuls of her hair and the heat pooling low in her belly burns brighter as he thrusts in and out of her mouth. 

She swallows him down as he cums, releasing him with an audible _Pop_. He's a black shadow framed by the light of the window from her position kneeling at his feet.

The stricken expression darkening her pretty features has him using his words, “Baby, come here,” and he's pulling her up, crushing her to his chest. He licks into her mouth with a fervor that buries the image of a fallen angel. Every beat of his heart beneath her palms is another handful of dirt as she feels him whole and alive and _hers._

“Alex, I…” he starts, breathing heavily, forehead pressed to hers.

“Richard,” she hushes him, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, tongue soothing the hurt. 

Lacing their fingers together he guides her back to their bed, slipping his t-shirt she slept in over her head. He lays her down with reverence, mouth worshiping at her breasts while his fingers slowly bring her to an orgasm that leaves her shaking, panting his name amongst a litany of curses. 

She's still coming down as he slips inside of her, burying his face at the crook of her neck while his hips roll lazily against her. Cradling her body close as if he could crawl inside her skin and never leave. 

The apocalypse is a grisly cure for her insomnia. An army of death is marching across the earth. There's nothing waiting for Alex when she closes her eyes. It's Richard she has to coax to bed, lifting the fog settled over him by dusty tomes and his father's words with wandering hands and a greedy mouth. 

“Richard,” she breathes out on a sigh as his weight presses her into the mattress. His hands absently skim up and down her sides as she worries the skin along his shoulder with her teeth. The tips of his fingers brush under her breasts, a sweep of his thumbs over her nipples. His lips press gentle kisses to her forehead, under each eye, the tip of her nose, her chin. The world is maybe, _probably_ , ending and Alex is a book laid out before him. Every little sigh is a secret he has to uncover. Her skin is a map he has to travel. Her touch is the text he wants imprinted on his soul. 

“Alex, I…,” he starts, mouth pressed close to her temple. 

“Richard,” she hushes him, insistent hands pushing him down where she wants him. As he settles between her legs, three day old stubble scratching at the soft skin of her thighs, her fingernails scrape against his scalp while his tongue works over her clit. He likes to hear her, she knows. She encourages him with moans and whispers _Please, Yes, Fuck, Baby, Yes, I want you, I need you, I…_. 

It ends with heavy footfalls on the front porch. Scratching at the back door. A smile curving wide across a face with lifeless eyes.

He promised.


End file.
